Here and There
by FlowerPostrider
Summary: They thought they knew each other, but there were times when they didn't. Either way, they all became closer. One-shots that should or shouldn't have been, or somehow got lost along the way somewhere. May include other characters, but definitely has my own headcanons (and possibly AUs). Chapter 4 posted.
1. Chapter 1: Accidental Glance - Part 1

A/N: It's been forever since I have written fanfiction... I'm super rusty anyways. It might not be accurate, and possibly out of character. I try, really. Uh, I'm not a great writer but I hope you like this.

I don't have any set times. For now, this chapter takes place during the series.

Also, I might update this since I have no clue about the small details, such as the interior of the print shop. Please forgive me.

* * *

CHAPTER 1 – Accidental Glance, Part 1

"Phew."

Moses stood up from a lying under the printer and wiped the sweat beading down his forehead. In mid-day July, working inside the print shop at noon wasn't exactly bad, but it also wasn't favorable, either. The heat (which isn't as hot as other states' weather) just made everything uncomfortable and all the more tiring, and opening all the windows did not help one bit. The room was too arid.

 _At least it's a little better than winter,_ Moses thought. _Ah, I remember those days..._ He remembered the coolness of the air and the snow that slowly dropped from the sky. Pennsylvania may be a wonderful land of cool climates, but Moses was not entirely set on loving it yet. Winter gave him so many memories. Just the thought of the freezing temperature made him appreciate what he now had: a fireplace, a place to stay, sufficient clothes, _freedom to do as he wishes..._

He shook off his thoughts, preferring not to recall anything from his past. That was long gone. No more cold, sick nights. No freezing to death. He was a free man now, free to have all the warmth he wants.

For some reason - Moses had noticed when he awoke - Henri was missing for most of the morning. That was unusual of the French boy, especially since he left before Moses could wake, and Moses was always one of the first ones up. He searched every room in the print shop for a good portion of the morning and was about to give up until little rumors of a French boy running away from an angry baker a few blocks down reached the shop. Sarah offered to conduct an investigation and bring him back. However the girl hasn't returned since. And as for Dr. Franklin? Well, the old man hasn't been back for days, but Moses guessed he was out on his political business as usual. Or at least something along those lines.

Meanwhile, Moses and James stayed behind to fix the printer. The main lever was dysfunctional for a reason the two couldn't figure out yet, and some ink was spilled overnight, so half of the machine was a covered in a sticky mess. It was one of the many disasters they had to deal with, but Moses never minded it; He was never one to grumble.

However, not everyone was as patient as Moses.

Currently, Moses was attempting to get a better look at the lever and James was kneeling on the floor, cleaning up the black substance.

"This is hopeless!" exasperated James. "Moses, look at this. The stains won't budge. There has to be a better way."

Moses wiped his hands on his apron. "James, complaining will get you nowhere."

"This isn't right; I've been scrubbing for hours and yet-" he rubbed the rag in his hand a little more furiously on the wood, "-nothing."

"Trust me. Continue cleaning and you'll be done before you realize."

The blond huffed and crossed his arms, looking away. He knew Moses was right and knew better than to argue, but he could not help but show an unpleased face. "I know. But that still doesn't change the fact that _this_ is hard to get off."

 _"James."_

"Alright, alright..." Defeated, he went back to scrubbing, but not before rolling his eyes and muttering a last, i complaint under his breath.

 _This boy..._ Moses lightly shook his head and turned. _What am I? His father?_ He nearly chuckled at the silly thought as he rummaged through a box of a few extra tools, wondering why James always listened to a colored man such as himself in the first place. Not that he didn't appreciate it (because someone has to look out for him!), but certainly there was someone who taught him manners? No, that can't be. He grew up without his parents, and the way he acted sometimes? Impossible. He's still learning, but...

...he always treated Moses as if he was any other adult. Like _a friend_.

And he never knew why.

Abruptly, James called out, disrupting his contemplation.

"Moses, wait!"

"What now?"

"Your back," James plainly stated. "It's..." A shocked face followed.

For a moment, a rush of worry arose.

 _His back?_ He couldn't possibly mean...

"There's ink all over it," he explained further. Then, relief swept the worry, and a sheepish voice continued, "Guess I missed a lot on the floor." Moses twisted about in an attempt to view his shirt, and lo and behold, it was stained. Like, _really_ stained.

 _Oh._

Moses heaved a sigh. It must have been during the time he laid on his back to check under the printer. "I'll be right back. I need to get this off." James nodded, half guilty, and half sympathetic.

"Sorry about that," Moses heard as he walked out and into one of the back rooms.

"It's alright."

He managed to find a bucket and sat himself on a secluded workbench next to a window. With some spare soap left, the man took off one of his only few shirts and worked to remove the splotches, but with no avail at first.

James was right - this ink was difficult to clean.

This oncoming challenge left Moses in a busy state. Constantly, he scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed. Some came off and colored the water, only to dye the rest of the shirt with a light gray tint. One accidental scrub had spread the blotch even more. The failures began to give way to frustration, and before he had realized it two hours had passed. Moses didn't believe the task would take him this long. _Talk about hard work_ , he told himself. The stain was now slightly faded, but still visible. _Well, it could be worse._ He could at least understand where James's irritated state earlier was coming from.

He washed and scrubbed again, occasionally submerging the clothing in the bucket of water. His mind attempted to form other solutions, since Moses honestly has not done this before (he was always so careful with his work that cleaning off ink was never necessary. He didn't wear an apron for nothing). Maybe Sarah knew how to fix this? _Where is she anyways?_ he continued wondering. _Shouldn't she be back with Henri by now?_ It was well past noon. At least the some of the heat subsided. And without his shirt, he cooled down much better.

Moses finally stood up and held the drenched article in front of him and observed his job. In the sunlight streaming through the window, it appeared to be a failure. Or maybe the lighting didn't even matter. He was still not satisfied. The way the black was immensely _visible_ influenced Moses to frown in contempt. To him, the shirt was tarnished to a level that even a half-blind man could see it a long ways down. No matter how many times he told himself it wasn't worth the fuss anymore, it remained a bother to him. So he went on with scrubbing.

He was so engaged in this small matter he never heard the approaching footsteps from the hall.

"Hey Moses, I was thi-" came a voice as the door was pushed open. It sharply died, and then, the smallest gasp.

With the realization that finally caught up, Moses dreadfully turned to see the boy that just walked in.

And by looking at James's expression, Moses knew it was too late to stop anything.

* * *

A/N: Well, screw me; I'm not meant to be a writer. :P I just hope that at least one person will like this. I probably will come back to revise this chapter anyways. I just wanted my idea to be out there.

I apologize for anything out of character. I absolutely love this show, and really wish that it could have been redone. I know it's cheesy and all and I don't favor the art and animation, but I love historical concepts. Also, I'm not a romantic, so sorry to all you J/S shippers (I don't hate it though!). I do love family and friendship fluff (as you can clearly see with Moses and James here), so maybe? Things? Will work out? Between us? Yeah?

And by the way, I don't know how many active fans there are for this ridiculous show, but I am one of them. :) Come to my tumblr art blog at **reveriedoodles**! Ask for fan art for this show (YES I TAKE REQUESTS :D) and I will definitely do it as long as it's appropriate! ;) (I just need an excuse to post some fan art lol because this fandom is dying! *cries*)

I have a lot of chapters and stories in mind, but it will take a while so bear with me! :) Until then, feel free to message me.


	2. Chapter 2: Accidental Glance - Part 2

Yeah, umm... here... *shuffles away*

Disclaimer:

Moses: That girl does not own Liberty's Kids.

James: Also, she is a trashy writer.

Author: Hey, I heard that!

James: You were supposed to.

* * *

 **Chapter 2: Accidental Glance - Part 2**

He looked away. Maybe a tad too quickly.

 _Damn_ , he thought. _I bet I was noticed._

"I, uh," he tried to casually continue. But it was obvious that he couldn't. "Moses, I thought you might want another shirt…" James slowly held it out in front. He can feel the eyes observing him. Moses, all of a sudden, felt distant. And James didn't like it. Not one bit.

Moses walked over, and received the shirt gently. "Thank you." An awkward pause. "Did you finish cleaning up the printer?"

He stole another glance, only to regret his decision. There were more scars on his chest!

Blue eyes darted away again. "Oh, um, yeah." Another pause.

"Hey," Moses said. A strong, familiar hand placed itself on his shoulder. "Are you alright?"

But there was no response.

James knew it wasn't like himself to keep quiet like that. But wasn't sure how he was supposed to react. The skin, the scars… What should he say? Sure, he never went through any experiences like Moses', but for him to talk like he didn't care, that it was none of his business? That everything was okay? (Because no, it is not okay) He already figured out how it probably happened, and believed that Moses wouldn't want to be bothered about his time as a "servant." However, in his heart he knew slavery was wrong, and he wanted to say _something._

But what?

"James?" Moses pressed on.

James's mood quickly soured.

"I'm fine," he seethed lowly. "Just thinking."

His jaw tightened.

"Are you sure? Doesn't sound like it to me." Even though he was looking away, James can sense Moses raising an eyebrow at him.

He was trying his best to suppress his anger, but his uncomfortableness was too obtrusive. Honestly, how _could_ they? Moses, one of the most important people in his life, treated like nothing but _cattle_. James wouldn't dare tolerate that. The thought of it infuriated him.

 _But it's not like I actually_ know _anything…_

"Yes, geez." He tried to brush him away, avoiding eye contact. Subconsciously, he formed balled fists at his sides. "I'm perfectly fine."

Of course, Moses knew better.

"Hey, Look at me."

"It's _nothing,_ " he emphasized. That was a lie; His mind was going nuts.

 _Moses probably thinks I don't understand it anyways_ , James thought, arguing with himself _. It's not like I've been through it._

 _Should I talk about it?_

 _No._

 _But it—_

 _Happens all the time, remember? It's just slavery._

 _What? It's more than that!_

"James," he ordered. "Look at me." (Oh, how he hates it when he says his name in that manner!)

Hesitantly, he raised his head, their eyes met, and instantly an anxious weight he didn't know that existed was lifted. There was a hint of worry prevalent in the look Moses gave, but just out of concern. A message got across without a word being spoken:

 _Talk to me. It's okay._

There was a thought James couldn't comprehend. Why was Moses such an amazing person, despite all that he's been through? Moses, who always cared about him. Always looked after him. Went out of his way to take care of others. Moses, who could take anything this horrid life throws at him, yet still does what is right, even if it wouldn't be fair. Moses, a wonderful friend that James decided he might not deserve, yet had anyway, because he admired him so much.

Oh, life was just full of horse dung.

"Moses, I," James finally said, anger melting. "Sometimes I forget that… That they hurt you too. The fact that you had to go through all that pain upsets me."

"It's alright. That was a long time ago." Moses offered a small smile. "We never talked about it much, did we?"

"No," He said. "I'm sorry."

 _I'm sorry for being so ignorant sometimes._

"You don't have to be." James almost smiled back at that.

 _Nothing's your fault._

"You know," James continued, half-falling back into his casual tone, assured that Moses was listening. "Before I met you, I learned what my kind of people do your people. They beat them. Sometimes they murder them. They take _everything away_."

 _He remembered a distant memory from years ago, back when he was living on his own. Two runaway slaves managed to escape from a southern tobacco plantation, and were caught one night, merely weeks after the escape. Another sympathetic slave was keeping them in hiding until they were found out, or so he heard. James watched in the streets as one – a woman – was detained, and the other – a teenage boy who resisted - was beaten dead by the owner. The woman wept. No one did anything to stop it._

"It's not fair," he let out. "It was _wrong_."

Moses's lips formed a thin line. "I know."

"It shouldn't have happened to you. And they shouldn't have separated you from your brother."

"I know."

"It shouldn't happen to anyone…" he drifted off. Who knows what Moses endured? Those scars looked awful. James was too afraid to find out more than he already knew.

 _The memory continued. As the woman – maybe forty or so – was being escorted, she glared at James when she passed by him on the street, and James felt blameful, as if he were the cause of the commotion._

 _He went back to the slave that had helped the two escapees. She was in the middle of watching her friends being taken away._

" _What will happen to her?" James asked, being a curious little boy as always._

" _A very good lashing, maybe," she murmured sadly, looking down the road. "If she's lucky, her owner won't kill her."_

 _Then, she glowered at him. "But what would a boy like you know?"_

He scowled.

Maybe it was stupid of him to understand.

The hand on his shoulder gave a short pat. "You're a good kid, you know that?"

James scoffed. "Hardly." Normally he would have taken the compliment, but as of now he wasn't up to being his boastful, cocky self. Moses seemed just as surprised at the retort.

The boy gave a shrug. "I feel kinda guilty sometimes, Moses."

"For what?"

"For being born _free_."

"Well, that's not something you could have chosen, James. Besides, no doubt you had your struggles too."

He pondered for a moment, and then nodded curtly in understanding. "Umm… How long…?"

 _How long were you a slave?_

Moses turned away and sat back down at the working bench. He offered the space to his left. "I don't know. Fifteen years? Twenty?"

James took the seat.

"You don't have to talk about it."

Moses chuckled. "Quite the contrary."

He began a story.

"I snuck out a lot, trying to find my brother when I was a child. You remember that I arrived here young, right?" James nodded. "Yeah, well, when I was sold off – by my own people in fact – I thought it wouldn't be too bad. In Africa, slavery is different. Masters treat you splendidly. Maybe even like family. I didn't understand that America would be… harsh."

"There are slaves in Africa?"

"Mhmm."

"I didn't know that…"

"A lot of people don't." Moses continued, "Anyways, I knew this new place called America couldn't be good from the moment I entered the ship. It was a terrifying experience. We were packed like sardines…"

As Moses told his story of his trip through the Middle Passage, James listened tentatively. It wasn't the happiest story he heard, of course, but he relaxed in Moses' company. He nodded, listened, and laughed when Moses occasionally told a comedic memory (he once fooled his master by hiding his saved money in his master's sack of potatoes once. The wife found it, only to disappear in the next hour, and Master thought his wife had gone mad). He'd forgotten the worries he had and was assured that listening to Moses would be okay.

"…And, well, she dead set in believing I couldn't read! I angrily told her with a straight face, 'Ma'am, you need some glasses. I think your eyes are too racist that it refuses to read anything in black.'"

James laughed again after hearing another funny arc of Moses' life.

"I can't believe you said that! No wait, I actually can."

"And if I told you I even made her a pair myself as a joke?"

"Then I wish I was there to see her face!"

They sat at the small workbench, exchanging stories for hours and never paying mind to the old stained shirt and the messy printer. How it got that way, one would wonder.

But Moses was right; it was all okay. Everything was fine, even if it wasn't.

* * *

A/N: If I remember correctly from my APUSH class, the Middle Passage was the main route in transporting slaves. Yes, the Africans did own other Africans as slaves, but the treatment in Africa was nothing compared to the United States. The Africans didn't know that they were selling their own people into a colony that treated slaves badly. In the ships, the amount of people that should be on board passed the limit when it came to transporting Africans, and many died from the harsh conditions of the trip. They were chained together, and sat in an awkward position for weeks because they literally were squished like sardines. They had no food and lived in their own filth, which quickly spread disease.

I'm pretty sure there were slaves that ran away during those times like the Civil War. If I'm wrong, do tell me. Also, does anyone want a separate chapter for Moses? Or any suggestions?

I'm sorry, I write so OOC. This is horrible. I'm no writer, but whatever. YOLO I guess.

Review? Please be nice about giving advice!


	3. Chapter 3: A Little Ways Back - Moses

A/N: This is a summarized background story for Moses. I've been wanting to do this for a while. I hope you like it!

I'll also be working on one for James, Sarah, and Henri. Hopefully, you'll look forward to those!

James: Nah, don't. Spare your eyes.

Author: *glooms*

Sarah: Be nice to her!

Moses: *sighs* The author does not own Liberty's Kids.

* * *

 **Here and There: Chapter 3 - Moses**

In Africa, he was happy. He was loved. He was with his people. He was free.

Mother was a lady who loved to sing; her hair was always wrapped in a wonderfully patterned green cloth, and she would lull Moses to sleep with her strong, melodic voice. Father was lucky to have a beauty that held the voice of rivers.

Even though the extreme heat of Nigeria was bothersome at times, the children would play. "Go, my son. Take your brother with you," Uwa would say as she stayed home, making dinner. He really should be helping with the farming, but the community has been doing well. And Uba agreed anyways.

"You have earned it," Uba told him. So Moses (was he even called that back then? He couldn't remember) took his brother Cato to play.

Then Moses gave a loving hug to his father and ran off.

Yes, life was great. He would grow up, and maybe have a family of his own. Uba and Uba would always be there for him. And his little brother – even though they would fight sometimes – would live to tell of great adventures together.

But peace didn't last that long; The future had something else in store.

* * *

When he was five, his home was destroyed.

"Son, wake," his father ordered gently in a language he had long forgotten. A hand grabbed his shoulder and his eyes flew open, only to meet darkness. What time was it?

"Uba," young Moses began. "What is wrong?" He heard men yelling outside and women screaming. Children, too. The expression on his uba's face only added to his growing fear; He looked stern, concerned, but mainly terrified.

What was happening?

His brother beside him stirred.

"Wake your brother," he said, with a tinge of worry, but still strong. "There is no time. Stay with your mother until I return."

And with that, his father left the home. Moses would never see him again.

Uwa sat next to them, with a look of sheer fear on her face. "Listen to me, son. Remember what I said about strangers of the village?"

Moses remembered. "If they come, pretend that we are not related."

"And?"

"Stay together as much as possible."

"Good." She kissed her son's forehead.

Some Africans of a different village invaded and raided their crops. The warriors kidnapped many men, women, and children, including Moses' family. His father was nowhere to be found, and he was separated from his mother. Around him, strangers that were also victims.

At least he kept his brother close.

* * *

The invaders shoved them in an open pen and brought them by the sea, where many of his kind were rounded up. A number of ships were docked by the shore, and Moses was amazed. He had never seen such a ship before.

"Brother," Cato asked, scared. "Where are we going?"

"I do not know," was all he could reply. Moses didn't know the answer himself.

A man, with a skin color as white as the sand, picked many from their line. So far, Moses' luck has been going well; they placed him and Cato together.

Then they forced a branding iron on their skins.

It was burning _hot_ – hotter than the African sun. Moses never remembered how he endured it (he'd rather not remember the pain) but he did remember his little brother's screams.

Afterwards, they were all chained together by the ankles and moved into the ships. By this time, Moses realized his life wasn't going to be so good. Chains were bad. Chains were for criminals. Chains meant _slavery_ , and Moses was no slave. No, he was born free.

So why was he chained?

 _What did we do wrong?_

The ship was horrible; they were pushed in violently because they could not fit. It was hot and musty. Coughs and moans filled the air, along with the stench of rotten corpses. Once, out of sea sickness, he vomited. Moses wondered if he was living in his own coffin.

For weeks, he stayed in a crouched position, pressed against the flesh of other men. He lost track of time; they rarely were exposed to sunlight. Every now and then, the captives would be ordered onto the deck and forced to dance (or as these white-skinned people called it, "dance the slave"). It was humiliating, but it was almost better than sitting in that awkward state for days.

Soon, they arrived in a place called America, and Moses' luck ran out.

He overheard the men talking. Cato was to be sold in a place called Virginia, while Moses goes to South Carolina.

"B-brother!" little Cato cried in the midst of chaos. They weren't the only ones being separated; Mothers screamed after their sons and daughters. "No! Do not leave me, please!"

"Cato!" Moses tried to struggle against the slave traders' strength, but they held the boy back well enough. "Let me go!" he demanded, attempting to reach out to his brother. " _Cato!_ "

He promised Uwa they would stay together!

"Help me here, will you?" a slave trader yelled behind him. "This strong boy is holding up quite a fight."

Moses thrashed and punched, but Cato was taken far away, out of his sight. Only then did Moses calm down, his resistance powerless. They ushered him onto a wagon and he sat. He didn't care that his head was bleeding from a white man's blow during his quarrel. He didn't care when someone asked him if he was alright.

He stayed in silence with the rest of the slaves.

 _Forgive me Uwa._

He closed his eyes, overwhelmed by despair.

 _I have failed. I am all alone now._

A silent tear.

 _I have nothing._

* * *

In the Virginia block, he was sold to a young couple that owned five children.

 _You was lucky_ , the neighboring slaves told him. _You's got a nice mass 'a._

"Old Ma", the oldest in the household, told Moses, "Be grateful, boy. Mass 'a don't beat the chill'in. So mind yourself." She advised. "And don't you run. Don't you eva run."

But he did. And he regretted it.

It happened after a year of being at the plantation. He was sick of the treatment; doing farmland for nothing. They grew nonedible food: cotton. Sweat and labor, day and night. He didn't understand this unfairness. So he tried to sneak out one summer, and was caught while his master was out walking his dog.

What a fool he'd been.

The master was easy on him (this was the first time) and gave him a beating before he returned to the shacks where the slaves lived. Old Ma shook her head when she saw that the boy was covered in bruises and contained a black eye.

"I told you, boy. Don't eva run."

Moses still didn't listen until another eight attempts along the course of six months, with a set of flogging after each try.

Old Ma was tending to his back after his last punishment. "What can I do then, Old Ma? I cannot run."

"Some buy their freedom, Moses," she replied as Moses hissed in pain. "Gotta use yo' head, not yo' legs."

Moses sat, puzzled. How can he earn money?

Suddenly he remembered of the blacksmith that worked by the master's home. People around the neighborhood gave that slave some coins if he helped them out. Maybe he could learn that too, whatever that was.

Blacksmithing, huh? Moses thought. Maybe Master will let me.

Oddly enough, the master did.

* * *

"Master, I would like my freedom."

"Pardon?"

"I would like to pay for my freedom, sir."

"Young man, do you even have money?" The master laughed, clearly amused.

Over the course of fifteen years, Moses carefully saved money, little by little. He was confident that he could pay for whatever price his master would demand.

"Maybe. How much would my freedom cost?" he continued.

The master's expression turned into a serious one, realizing that Moses was not joking.

"Eighty pounds."

"Done."

His master was taken aback. "Impossible. Ninety."

"You said eighty. No more."

"Fine. Show me the money. I cannot bring myself to believe you obtain such a sum."

Moses pulled out a sack of coins, and dumped it on his master's desk. He grabbed a handful from the bag, and placed it in front of his master. Master was shocked.

He continued to count, separating eighty pounds. Then, he slid the sum towards the older man, and returned the extras with the rest of what he owned.

"Well?" Moses waited expectantly.

"…You may go," he finally replied in awe.

"Thank you," Moses said, more or less in a dull tone. He walked out with the spare money he had, smiling at the fact that he had regained his freedom after fifteen years. All that hard work paid off.

 _Praise the Lord._

* * *

This was ridiculous. Moses couldn't find a job. _Anywhere._

After buying his own freedom, he moved to the northern states, believing it was safer for a former slave as himself to live there. But because he was African, no one would allow him to work for them. Even a shopkeeper in New Jersey who was desperately looking for assistants turned him away.

Whatever; New Jersey was weird anyway.

He quickly moved to Pennsylvania after hearing about the bustling city of Philadelphia. Moses needed work soon, because the leftover shillings he earned from before wasn't going to last too long.

Hours passed, and by noon, there still was no job offered. White people didn't give him a second glance.

"How hopeless can this be?" Moses muttered to himself as he walked down the street, disappointed. He was about to pass by a wagon stationed in front of a print shop, but stopped. He noticed an old man, trying to unload some heavy boxes, was clearly about to fall. Moses immediately took one from the stack in the man's arms. "Careful there, sir."

"Oh, quite kind of you," said the old man. He had a bald spot, and was a little… Round. "I'm too old for this."

"No, it would be my pleasure. I'd like to help," Moses offered.

"Oh!" The man smiled. "Well then. If you do not mind…"

"Moses. I'm Moses," he said as he took the box inside the print shop. "Do you own this place?"

"Most definitely," answered the man. "However I am understaffed."

"Shall I set it here?"

"Rather by that corner, if you may," replied. "Also, please, call me Dr. Franklin."

"Well, Dr. Franklin," Moses continued. "May I offer myself to work for you? You mentioned you were understaffed, correct?"

"I was hoping you would say that, Moses." Dr. Franklin grunted has he handed the heavy boxes to Moses. "You sure are a strong lad, and I've already taken a liking to you." He patted Moses' shoulder. "Consider yourself hired!" Then he chuckled and walked out of the shop, getting the rest of the wooden boxes. Moses followed. He couldn't believe at how fast this man had agreed with him.

Then, Moses grinned. He liked Dr. Franklin. He was a little bit peculiar (what was the man singing about?), but hey…

…He gave him his first job.

* * *

A/N: I revised this chapter a little (just little grammar mistakes). However, I really do not like any of my chapters. I apologize for my ineptness. I think I will revise all of them one way or another eventually. I don't know why, but as I was looking at all of my old writings (ones I never published), my writing from three years ago was much better than my writing now. I'm impressed by my old use of vocabulary. So yeah, I guess I am a little rusty. Ugh.

I think I did the characters wrong. I'm still figuring out more definite characteristics of the characters of Liberty's Kids, but since the series wasn't a popular one and each episode was written by different people, the traits of the fictional characters were a bit... vague. We do have a few definite qualities, but i'd say there was no deep character development. As a kid, I think that was what I had wanted to see. Even now, too. So, I will be in the process of revising the chapters while updating.

I have nothing against New Jersey. It's just a thing (if have ever seen Turn: Washington's Spies. Don't watch it without parental guidance) that I got from a scene where an officer was saying "This is mutiny!" and the soldier with the rifle yelled back, "This is New Jersey!" And I thought, wow, well weren't they weird back then.

Uba and Uwa mean "father" and "mother" respectively in a Nigerian language. We don't know if Moses is Nigerian, but I made it a headcanon because I like Nigeria and a lot of my friends are Nigerian. Also, Moses and Cato are names that usually given in America during that time, so maybe those aren't their real names. I assume that Moses forgot his real one (the Nigerian name) unless Evangelists were already spreading Christianity to their country when Moses was young, but I don't know. I can never assume that.

Please review! I want to know how I can improve. Plus, I'd love to hear from you!


	4. Chapter 4: Bottle to the Sea

**Author's Note**

Author: Screw me; I have like 1 review so y'all must hate me and my stories. Whatever, I still like doing this. Please review? I wanna know how i'm doing honestly.

Author: So here's a chapter with Sarah and Henri! It's bad, i know-

Sarah: Yes, it truly is...

Author: BUT WHO CARES? Actually I do. *sobs at my ineptness* Also I made some mistakes from the last chapter so i'll work on that.

 _Fun Fact:_ I don't own LK but hell if I did I'd bring it back and remake it man

* * *

 **Chapter 4 - Bottle to the Sea**

Sarah sighed for probably the hundredth time. It's been hours since she began her little search for Henri, and the sun was at high. _Just where did that troublesome boy go?_ She thought. Looking for the young French boy grew tiresome, as it always was, and the British girl had asked plenty of kind people if they'd seen him. Over by the bakery, they said. But the baker told her he ran off to the wharf. So she went to the wharf, but so far she had not seen a single sign of him.

The girl thought it didn't make sense of Henri to go to the wharf; after all, what if that captain from before happens to be there and recognizes him? Flashes of the worst case scenarios went through her mind, and suddenly she shook her head and decided not to think about it. There was no other lead she had, so she continued to scan the docks with more determination.

"Henri, I thought Moses told you to avoid this area…" Sarah mumbled, as if planning out her reprimand once she found the boy.

The wharf was packed with merchants, travelers, and sailors unloading large, heavy boxes of goods. Numerous British soldiers in their noticeable red coats patrolled in groups, giving off their aura of authority, and perhaps causing some colonists to be tense. With such a bustling area, she could hardly concentrate. A few might have glanced her way, wondering what a young British girl is doing all by herself in a place like this. Sarah wondered the same thought.

 _I hope I find him soon. I want to stay here no longer._

She weaved through the many passersby, checking almost every port, and even squinting at the far sea for small rowboats he might be on (because Henri can literally be doing _anything_ ). Sarah made sure to be thorough; she searched under covered crates, behind barrels, and even asked sailors of the whereabouts of a small French boy running around, giving a full description. No one recalled seeing him.

As more time passed, Sarah started to doubt that she could locate Henri.

She almost reached the other end of the wharf, and the area was thinly populated. A part of her clung onto the last hope that Henri was still there, or else she wouldn't know where to look next.

 _Maybe I should check once more…_ Her pace slowed, and she came to a stop at the end of last dock. No one was around as far as she could tell. She didn't bother to check the boats, because at this point she was tired. Really tired.

Sarah didn't even want to think about making another round about the docks.

She returned to the main dock and sat on a crate. Facing the sea, the redhead let out a perplexed huff and placed her chin on her hand, deciding to take a rest. The sun felt nice on her back, and the wind was soothing. For a split second, her worries were lifted and she closed her eyes, embracing the peace. Her face lost the tenseness from the pensive expression she never even noticed she was wearing. The air she slowly inhaled was salty, but nonetheless fresh. Then, a breeze… Green eyes opened again.

A quick fling caught her eye, followed by a soft splash.

It startled her. At first she thought it may have been a seagull, dropping by to float among the pigeons. But then she heard another splash, and then it faded into a sound of pouring water.

She waited, straining her ears and not daring to blink.

An arm, there. _Splash._

She stood up. One of the rowboats had a two small arms dangling off the rim and playing in the water.

 _Right_ , she told herself. _I had not bothered to check those._

She leisurely strode to the small boat. It was rather full of boxes (no wonder she couldn't see anybody!), yet it calmly bobbed in still waters. There, she found a boy in Henri's clothes, back faced towards her. He was lazily hanging his arms and head off next to the bowsprit that pointed toward the vast ocean. Sarah stayed on the dock.

"Henri," she called, placing one hand on her hip.

The soft splashing stopped and the boy's ruffled head looked up, as if he spotted something beyond the horizon, but Henri didn't turn around to face the familiar voice. His head drooped again without another response.

Sarah raised an eyebrow.

"Henri Lefevbre, what are you doing here?" Sarah tried again, using her mother-like tone in hopes of gaining his attention. "Do you understand how cautious you must-" But her scolding drifted silent.

 _Sniff._

She watched his left arm moved and rubbed in front of his face.

Then, he turned but a few inches. "Sorry, Sarah," he said.

She was taken aback, and noticed his tone. He wasn't his happy, lively self that usually would have wanted to show her something interesting. He didn't complain about how hungry he was. Heck, she almost missed him talking about food since she hasn't seen him all day.

No, his voice too coarse and too sad and too _defeated._

Sarah immediately stepped down onto the boat and was at the boy's side in a heartbeat; something was wrong and she was going to get to the bottom of it.

She peered over and saw a bunch of flowers floating on the surface. In Henri's left hand was a small glass bottle, probably the object he was using to play with the water. In his right hand was a fist of flowers – lavenders and blue peonies – and a cork.

"…Henri?" She leaned forward, trying to get a better look at the boy's face. He hid himself too late, and Sarah noticed the bruise on his cheek. She gasped, and only then did she also notice his clothes were dirtied – as if he rolled down a forest slope. "What happened to you?"

"It'z nozhing." He looked at her for a brief second, and then turned away again, embarrassed by his tear-stained cheeks and puffy eyes. Henri didn't want to worry her.

"You're lying," she confidently stated. "Do tell me. I hate to see you like this, and you know you will tell me eventually. Out with it."

The younger child hesitated but began, knowing it was useless to argue against Sarah, "It waz zhose stupid boys again… Zhey… Zhey made fun of me."

Her concerned face softened. "How so?"

"Zhey said zat my parents died because zhey'd razher not live with a stupid son as me," he explained. "I got angry because I knew zhat wasn't true, so pushed one of zhem. Ze rest started to beat me up, but I got away."

She placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. "I just miss zhem," he confessed. He threw another flower further than the rest. It plopped on the surface. Sarah silently watched. A few moments passed without a word.

"Why… are you doing that?" Sarah finally asked. "You're wasting such pretty flowers. It would be better if you kept them in a vase, like that bottle…" she began to reach down and retrieve some tossed flowers soaking in the salty waves. But Henri stopped her.

"Non! Leave zhem," he said.

"What's wrong?" Sarah looked over her shoulder and paused, her hand barely brushing the water. "I admit, they're beautiful flowers…"

"Zhey're for my parents."

Parents? Sarah gave a puzzling look. Now why on earth would he be putting flowers –

Right. On graves.

She mentally slapped herself.

"Oh, sorry," she awkwardly apologized, pulling back her arm. "Are those for them, too?" Henri nodded.

She thought for a moment. Maybe there was something she could do as well? How is one supposed to send greetings to _the ocean?_ Sarah never was placed in this situation before; usually when someone she knew had passed in England, he or she would be buried on land and she would be able to place flowers by a marked tombstone.

But knowing how cruel the captain was, Henri's parents were probably tossed off of the ship they worked on, with a gigantic sea as a resting place. No tombstone to mark where they were. No way of knowing where the flowers were meant to be.

Henri knew that.

 _And he probably saw them get thrown overboard after their deaths, too_ , Sarah mused. _Oh, Henri…_

She sadly continued to watch him mindlessly play around with the glass bottle. He filled it up with some salt water and swished it around before pouring out the contents. Sarah was almost mesmerized, the way he messed with it; she was curious as to what Henri was thinking. At one point the bottle slipped and fell upright, and the buoyancy allowed it to float. It reminded Sarah of a message in a bottle, just like in the books about men stranded on islands, desperately trying to call for help through a method that needed a miracle. Henri even further, and grabbed the glass out.

Meanwhile, an idea popped in Sarah's head.

"How about a letter?" She suggested out loud.

"Hm?"

"A letter," the older girl repeated. "Would you like to write one? To your parents?"

This time, Henri gave a puzzled face. He didn't like writing, but didn't object. "How?"

"We write it. Then," she took the bottle from Henri's hands. "We roll it up, put it in this bottle, and let it drift into the ocean."

Henri's eyes brightened with excitement, and Sarah smiled. "Like zhose pirate stories!" The girl nodded. "Let's do it!"

Sarah took out a piece of paper and a quill from her brown leather satchel, along with an ink jar. The two moved to a crate on the small boat to use it as a table.

"Can I write it?" Henri asked.

"Of course."

The letter read something like this:

(In French)

 _Dear Mama and Papa,_

 _It has been a long time since you left. I miss you very much. It makes me sad, but you are in a better place, no? Is not that what you taught me, Papa? That people go to heaven when they have to leave? I wish you did not have to go. My friends Sarah, James, Moses, and old Doctor Franklin have been so nice to me. Well, sometimes I argue with James and Sarah, and Moses says I am stubborn, but I love them a lot. Maybe later you will meet them. They are wonderful people. I like this new land of America. The British that are still here are as mean as ever. I remember Papa telling me stories about when the French had fought them for hundreds of years. Papa is right. I do not like the British. Except Sarah. Sarah is British, but she is the good kind. Are there British people in heaven? What is it like there? Is there food? Mama, save me some food when I get there! I really miss your bread! The bread here is horrible. Tell Grandma and Grandpa I said hi. I will see you later. Also, I love you very much, and I hope you are all well!_

 _Your son,_

 _Henri._

 _P.S. I am doing okay, by the way! Do not worry! I know you do that a lot, Mama._

 _P.S.S. I sent you flowers. They are purple for Mama's favorite color. And blue, for Papa, because Papa always wears blue!_

The letter was short, and from the way Henri happily scribbled (she had never seen him so happy to write!) it must have been sweet. As Sarah rolled it, she read some of the French words and laughed. She didn't know much French, but she knew the word "food" when she saw it _. Of course Henri would_ , she thought, chuckling.

"What?" Henri asked, offended and suspicious of the girl.

Ah, there he is again. Sarah hated to admit it, but she was relieved to see his usual attitude come back.

"Nothing, nothing." She patted his head, and Henri pouted, crossing his arms. She held her hand out expectantly, and Henri gave her the cork and the flowers. Although the flowers would not last in the bottle, Henri insisted on adding them to the little personal treasure. So she placed them inside and securely attached the rubber cork. "Here we are."

"I give you the honors," Sarah passed the bottle to the boy.

Henri smirked, promptly stood, and faced the small bowsprit. He took a step back before catapulting the object with all of his strength, reaching a greater length than what Sarah could have accomplished. It reflected the sunlight at them for a second before disappearing into the ocean. Henri placed his hands on his hips and proudly grinned back at Sarah. The girl was surprised at how far the boy could throw.

Then, before she realized it, he gave her a quick hug.

Henri jumped off the boat, causing it to sway, and Sarah was left a bit stunned by the adorable gesture. "Where are you going?"

"To ze shoppe! I'm hungry!" he complained. Sarah laughed again.

"Me too, after all this searching for you," she added. "We need to do something about those clothes first. And your bruise, okay?"

The boy groaned. "Can zhat wait?"

Sarah opened her mouth to lecture him when her own stomach growled. Loud. "Alright, you win this time. I suppose it can wait." She kept her smile and climbed onto the dock, walking alongside Henri. "And do not run off like that again! At least until we reach the print shop. I do not want to spend hours trying to find you."

"Oui, oui…"

" _Henri._ "

"I swear!"

The two bickered as they traveled back to the print shop, with Sarah giving a full lecture that bored Henri out of his mind, and Henri giving half-hearted vows that he wouldn't disappear to do whatever he wants.

 _Honestly, this boy is quite something_ , Sarah pondered as she walked down the familiar Philadelphian streets. Henri was in the middle of listing foods he missed from France. _He cannot seem to remove food from his head._

Although concerned, Sarah was happy – happy that she was able to get little Henri back to his usual self. The girl decided that she never wanted to see that sad face on the boy again; she'd be more than glad to listen to his speeches of pastries and dishes over any heart-wrenching moment.

 _I'll make sure it will not happen again_ , Sarah quietly promised, seeing the bubbly boy lost in his food fantasies.

 _For as long as I live, I'll make sure._

* * *

 **A/N:** Now, readers, please don't be shy to say something. I don't care if you even send a smiley face to tell me you're there.

Like am I doing bad? No? Yes? Maybe you could help me? Or just rant about how Star Wars Rebels messed up your feels last night in the season 2 finale? Maybe even talk about that dog you adopted last week?

Nah? Okay. Cool.

Also! I do not know how to spell Henri's last name. They have a website and they don't even put in on there. I think it's mentioned in one of the episodes, but I didn't bother to check.


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